


Wake

by StAnni



Category: The OA (TV)
Genre: F/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 06:18:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18404837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StAnni/pseuds/StAnni
Summary: He finds her because he will never not find her – in a hotel room in Paris.





	Wake

He finds her because he will never not find her – in a hotel room in Paris. Paris. His body has lived in Paris for three years, working as a sous-chef of all things. His fingers are rough from cuts and his arms are strong, stronger even than when he was a quarterback.

She is Lua, and she is not French but she pretends to be. She is a grifter, or so he has heard. When he opens the door to her hotel room, which is not locked, she is wearing a black dress that is tightly cinched around her waist and her hair is lighter than it was before. She glances at him as she finishes the smudge of crimson on her lower lip.

“Can I help you?” she asks and he is unfooted – as always – when he hears her voice. In that moment, in that very second, the Homer that first met OA rises to the surface to pull her back. “OA, it’s me.”

There is that slight parting of her lips – her eyes shimmer, just ever so slightly, as if a shadow is lifted. It is imperceptible if you don’t know what exactly to look for.

“Homer.”

*

Because their time together is, usually, sparse ending in violence they have learned, through muscle memory, to use every second, every inch of breath or blink.

*

Her mouth is soft here, skilled and jealousy ripples through his chest, deep and dark, when she takes him in her mouth. With the skill of an artist she draws a moan out of him that reverberates with the ache of the time that they have spent apart. His grip on her neck is tight and he pulls her up as he pushes her back against her nightstand.

She is not wearing underwear and he bites into her mouth as he pushes himself roughly into her – his mind tinging with the black of anger at the thought of other men in his place. 

“How many men have you fucked in this room?” He breathes into her mouth as his thrusts become harder, wilder.

She doesn’t answer – but keeps his gaze with her own. There could have been dozens there could have been none. She has been a virgin, she has been a whore. Tonight she is masterful, tilting her chin just so, moving her hips to meet him – drawing as much pleasure out of him as he is drawing out of her.

“You used to ask me to spread my legs for you in the cage, lift my skirt – come for you.” Her voice is a low song, mesmerizing and his cock, thick and warm inside of her, feels impossibly strong, impossibly important. Her gifts of seduction are overwhelming here. In turn, he is bolder, his fingers leave bruises and he is not afraid to burn or be burned. “How many men have bent you over their knees? How many men have you crawled to on this floor?”

He is turned on by her silence, by the anger in his veins – his body, Patrick Loman, responding erratically to her charms. His hips stutter forward – deep, wild and his hands grip her thighs, fingers white with effort. She moans as the first orgasm rolls over her and he fucks her through it, relentless – one thing that he knows she likes in every body, every bed, ever skin.

Her voice, throaty with exertion drives him over the edge “I loved to watch you show me, fuck into your fist, and then groan as you came spilling through your fingers.” Her eyelashes against his cheek like electricity “I wanted your cock inside of me, I wanted you to come inside of me.”

His hips burn as he drives forward in a final thrust – emptying himself in a loud cry. 

 

* 

Afterwards, on the balcony, her feet hang pale against the darkness in the cool night air. He sits next to her, his jeans pulled back on, jacket pulled over his shoulders. She is wearing his shirt, so big on her, and not even fully buttoned. She doesn’t seem cold at all and suddenly he realizes again how tough she really is. 

“You okay?” He ventures because it has been a long two minutes of nothing and she smiles in profile, amused at his concern, hair silver in the moonlight and her lips – still dark from smeared lipstick.

“Where do you think we’ll end up next?” She asks, as if it is a question that he can answer. He goes where she goes. “We can stay for a while” He suggests – he always suggests – as if it is up to him. But to be fair, it is not exactly up to her either.

He is tethered to her, consumed by her – and she in turn is drawn through the multiverse by invisible lines – which can only follow in her flight. Shudder to breath, burn through life and shatter apart only to be reborn again – always in her wake, where he is meant to be. 

“Stop thinking so hard, you’ll pass out.” She chuckles, her smile guileless and free – her eyes teasing and blue, so blue. She is a girl again, and he is just a boy and they are in love.


End file.
